


We'll Watch Our Bodies Break

by mytimehaspassed



Category: Kingdom (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 18:36:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11857320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: He comes out to his dad.The world ends.





	We'll Watch Our Bodies Break

He comes out to his dad.

The world ends.

***

In the hospital, Jay holds Nate’s hand until he wakes up, Nate’s fingers small and slack between them, curled around Jay’s in the way that they used to when he was little, when Jay raised Nate, after their mother, but before their father fucked everything up. Nate squints into the sun that shines through the window, the fire that yawns through the room, glinting off Jay’s sunglasses. 

His head hurts. His whole body hurts. 

He says, “You look like an asshole,” and his voice is rough, hewn, shorn off from the glass that he feels like he’s been eating. 

Jay doesn’t say anything for one long moment, his fingers tight on Nate’s, and he lifts his sunglasses and his face is raw, swollen, bruised and bloodied with what Nate figures is his own blood, and he’s been crying, it’s obvious, as obvious as the way his eyes shine now. Jay swallows once, twice, and then calls him a motherfucker. 

Nate smiles, but it never reaches his eyes. 

***

Will flies out, but Nate tells Jay not to let him into the hospital room when he tries to visit, and Jay looks at him sadly, looks at him with dark, disapproving eyes, but does what he says anyway. Jay returns with a crumpled looking peace plant and Nate feels a stab of anger run through him, for himself, for his father, for Will’s fucking gift. 

He closes his eyes and Jay runs his fingers through what’s left of Nate’s hair and presses one soft kiss to his temple, and Nate hates this, hates all of this, wants to ask Jay where Alvey is, but doesn’t know what to do if Jay tells him what he’s afraid of hearing. He says, “You can put it over there,” pointing to the table opposite the bed. 

Jay obeys, plunks the plant down next to the vase of lilacs their mother had sent from California. Nate’s phone rings in Jay’s pocket and Nate holds out the hand that’s not attached to the IV, but Jay shakes his head and points to the sign next to where he’s standing that says “No Cellphones.” 

Nate says Jay’s name, and when Jay doesn’t relent or make a move towards him, Nate sighs and holds up his middle finger. Jay smiles and blows him a kiss. 

***

The first night that Nate was in the hospital, after surgery, after they had moved him out of the ICU, Jay had slept curled around him in bed like a comma, careful not to touch any of the wires. He had kissed him a hundred, a thousand times, praying to a God he didn’t quite believe in, promising Him nothing, everything, whatever He wanted, if only Nate would wake up. 

Ryan had called him and said literal prayers over the phone, his whispers like music in Jay’s ear. Lisa had called and cried. His mother didn’t answer the phone until the sixth, maybe seventh time he called, and even then it was too late for him to do anything but state calmly, quietly, the turn of events, and she had sounded like she wanted to scream, but didn’t, couldn’t, and he could hear her muffled sobs over the other end, the shuddering, gasping cries as someone kept banging on the door to the bathroom she had locked herself in. 

Alvey called and called and called, kept calling, even when Jay deleted the unread text messages, deleted the unopened voicemails, blocked his number altogether. Jay had already banned him from the hospital, had slipped security all of the cash he had on him and made them promise to keep him out, had spun some sob story of an abusive father, and they had looked at Nate, small and unconscious in the bed, and agreed. 

After that, Alvey had somehow gotten the number to Nate’s room phone and started calling that until Jay had picked up some time between one and three in the morning, a little drunk from the airplane bottles he had snuck in, and told him that if he called one more goddamn time, Jay would fucking cut his throat open and bathe in his shed blood. Alvey had been quiet over the line then, had said “Jay,” in that sad, painful way he had, but Jay had told him to go fuck himself and hung up. 

Alvey never tried again. 

After Nate woke up and the doctors kicked Jay out to run some tests, Jay had gone wandering and found himself outside of his grandmother’s locked ward. The nurse at the reception desk had given him a rough once-over but didn’t say anything, and Jay had almost wanted to request to be let in to see her, but couldn’t bring himself to speak her name. Instead, he went two floors down to get a coffee out of the shitty vending machine in one of the synonymously long, sparsely lit hallways, the paper cup burning his fingertips until he could hardly feel them, and he had walked and walked and walked until his feet started to ache, until he couldn’t walk anymore, until he had to sit down in one of the hard-backed waiting room chairs, hunched over, his long legs rising up to meet the curl of his arms around his stomach. 

He had thought about the blood on the road, on Nate’s hands, dripping down his elbows, as Nate had looked pale and gone beneath them, as his father had screamed Nate’s name, as Jay had picked up the gun and pointed it at the man who had pulled the trigger. He had thought about how close they had been to losing each other. He had thought about what that would mean to everyone, to their father, to himself, alive, but with nothing, with nobody. 

He had thought about Nate dying, and he had thought about how quickly he would have joined him. And then he had buried his face in his hands and started to cry. 

An hour later, his coffee was cold enough that he could down it like a shot, the bitterness coating the back of his throat, sliding deep down inside of him. 

***

They get good at timing it so they only fool around between rounds. 

They can always hear the nurses in the hall, and they can always hear doctors or visitors or other patients walking around - the hospital never really goes silent - but sometimes, in the dead of the night when Nate wakes up because the morphine has run out for the hour, it will sound quiet enough and deserted enough for Nate to feel brave, to place a hand in Jay’s hair and stroke, rubbing his scalp with measured, strong fingers. Usually, Jay will stare up at him with this devastating look, these wild, hungry eyes, and they will both want, want each other, want so much to touch. 

And Nate will curl his fingers around Jay’s face, his thumb brushing over Jay’s lips, sliding between his teeth, and Jay will pulse his tongue around it, biting down ever so gently, and Nate will suck in a breath, unable to stop himself, and Jay will pop Nate’s thumb out of his mouth and climb up onto the bed and lean into Nate, and Nate will want and want and want. Jay has learned how to be gentle enough not to move anything important, not to aggravate any wounds, and Nate places his mouth on Jay’s and Jay breathes him in and for a moment it’s like only the two of them exist, and Jay tells him that he loves him, over and over and over, in this tiny, reverential voice, says it again and again and again until Nate asks him to shut the fuck up and guides Jay’s hand underneath the blankets and up Nate’s gown. And Jay will obey him, like he always does, and Nate will stare up at the cracked, stained tiles of the ceiling and want to cry with relief. 

Jay’s hand is achingly familiar, and it’s been long enough, they’ve been long enough, that both of them know all the right spots. Jay presses his mouth to the place behind Nate’s ear and Nate holds in a moan, and he can feel the tears on Jay’s cheeks, pressed flush against him, can taste the salt in his mouth. Jay whispers Nate’s name, once, twice, bright on his tongue, and Nate thinks about Will and doesn’t want to, forgets to say Jay’s name back, says nothing instead. 

He comes with blood in his mouth; he’s bitten his lip hard enough to break the skin. 

Jay licks it away, kisses him, pushes his tongue into Nate’s mouth, swallows him whole. 

***

When Nate’s allowed to leave the hospital, Jay checks them into a motel. Alvey’s still at their grandmother’s house, probably killing himself with whatever tequila bottles are left in the curio, and Nate doesn’t say anything when Jay helps him in the room and gently lifts him down onto one of the queen beds, doesn’t even say anything when Jay goes grocery shopping at the pharmacy down the road and brings back lots of little prescription bottles and lines them up on the bedside table like they’re both going to be staying here for awhile. 

Jay turns on the TV, flipping to the sports channel, and Nate is feeling itchy and coddled and fucking angry, so when he finally jerks himself out of his own head, he asks the only question that he knows Jay won’t answer: “Where the fuck is Alvey?”

Jay ignores him at first, turns up the volume on the TV, until Nate picks up one of the pill bottles and throws it at him, misses by a mile. Jay looks at where it’s landed on the floor and then back at Nate, his mouth a straight line. “Don’t worry, he doesn’t know where we are.”

“Jay,” Nate says, and Jay turns back to the TV. “Why the fuck did he not visit at the hospital?”

Jay shrugs, and Nate struggles out of the bed and hobbles off to the bathroom, ignoring Jay’s outstretched hands, his attempts to help. He slams the door as hard as he can, and it’s not even remotely comforting, and he turns on the water in the sink and sits on the toilet lid, digging his phone out of his pocket. There are no missed calls, no texts, so Nate knows Jay’s cleaned out his history. He looks up his contact list and Alvey’s name is not even listed. 

“Fuck,” he growls, and throws his phone against the wall. It bounces onto the tiles with a screen-shattering thunk, and Nate can hear Jay turn off the TV in the other room. Nate puts his head in his hands and wants to scream, but doesn’t. He hears Jay open the door and turn off the sink, and he feels hands on his head, the quick press of Jay’s mouth to his hair. 

“I don’t want him here,” Jay says, and it’s broken, the rise and fall of his voice, and it washes over Nate like a wave. “I don’t want him around you.”

Nate says Jay’s name and looks up at him with wet eyes. “You can’t make that decision for me. You can’t keep me from being hurt. You just can’t.” He opens his mouth and then closes it again, looks away. “You’re not my dad, Jay.”

Jay clenches his jaw hard enough that it hurts. “Nate,” he says, and it sounds terrible, he sounds terrible, pieced together without enough glue. “I can’t,” he stops and starts and stops again. “How can I look at him when he did this to you?” 

Nate looks down at his hands as they start to tremble. 

His doctors had told him that he would never fight again, that he might not be able to train again, that the pain low in his belly and arcing up his spine had most likely just begun. The doctors had said, their hands steepled together on top of their desks, grim, determined, professional, that it would be a long road to recovery, and Jay had looked at him with such sorrow on his face, his hand itching to hold onto Nate’s hand, but Nate could only nod numbly, didn’t know how to voice the rising desperation inside of him, didn’t know how to put anything he was feeling into words. He doesn’t blame Alvey for that, for the loss of his career, for almost ending his life. Nate doesn’t blame Alvey for any of it, not really. 

Not when the only one to blame is himself. 

***

Will calls Nate on the third night in the motel, after Jay has fallen asleep sitting up in one of the ratty desk chairs. Nate almost doesn’t answer it, thinks about not, but doesn’t want to be that person inside, has tried hard not to be that person inside. “Hi,” he says, and it’s a long breathy exclamation, and he can hear Will’s sharp inhale on the other end.

Will says Nate’s name, and Nate feels numb. “Where are you?” Will’s voice is hushed, unwavering. “Can I come get you?”

“I’m with Jay,” Nate says, and looks over at him, Jay’s face slumped in his hand, his sunglasses pushed up onto his forehead. They were drinking earlier, despite Jay’s insistence that Nate take it easy with his pain meds, and four beers later they had done nothing more than kiss, Jay’s wandering hands soft and smooth over Nate’s chest, but Nate feels guilty anyway, feels like he’s doing something he shouldn’t be. “We’re okay, just waiting until the doctors will let me fly home.” 

“Can I…can I come see you?” He sounds desperate, and Nate swallows down the anger that rises in the back of his throat at the display of emotion. His accent is rougher than usual, and Nate hears a bottle clink against something in the background and he’s sure Will is drinking just like they were drinking, nothing to do and nowhere to go and tired of all of this. 

Nate says, “No.” And then he thinks better of it and says, “Wait, okay. Jay’s asleep.” He recites the address of the motel from one of the complimentary pads of paper, waits for Will to write it down.

It only takes twenty minutes, Will must have been closer than he knew, and he texts Nate when he’s outside, under Nate’s strict instructions, and Nate slips out the door as quietly as he can, wincing slightly from the pain in his abdomen. Will’s waiting against the hood of his car, and he steps towards Nate, and Nate lets him wrap his arms around him, lets Will press kisses against the side of his face, on his eyebrow, his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Nate has no idea what for. “Do you want me to come in?” 

“No,” Nate says. And again, “No, better stay out here.” Jay is a light sleeper, and even if he somewhat approves of the relationship, Nate doesn’t want this to go farther than absolutely necessary. He lets out a sigh, and it sounds painful. “I can’t,” he stops, starts again, “I can’t do this anymore.”

Will looks at him for a long moment and his eyes are dark, unemotional in the low light. “Is this because of your father?”

“No,” Nate says, but it’s barely a sound, barely a word.

“I’m not forcing you into a relationship with me, Nate.” He swallows and runs a hand through his hair, stepping away from him. “I’m not going to beg you to be someone you’re not, but you can’t make me promise to keep waiting for you, either.” 

Nate doesn’t say anything. 

Will says, “Fuck,” and he’s not even angry, he’s just tired. Nate can hear the disappointment in his tone, can hear the exhaustion, and he wants to stop doing this, this on-again, off-again dance, but Will knows him enough now to know that it will always be this hard. One step forward, six steps back. 

“Fuck, Nate,” he says and grabs Nate’s shirt, pulling him towards his mouth. He kisses him like he’s been drowning, like Nate is his only chance to breathe, and it’s wild and it hurts a little and Nate opens up to him despite himself, despite the public space, despite Jay on the other side of the wall. Will lets Nate push him against the hood, bend him back, and Nate’s hands are in Will’s hair, and Will’s fingers are slipping beneath Nate’s shirt, and they’ve both missed this, they’ve both needed this just as much as the other. 

Nate feels hot and heavy and his skin aches for Will’s, and when Will thrusts his hips up against Nate's, Nate moans loud enough that Will starts laughing. 

They slow it down, and Will guides Nate into the tight space of the backseat of the rental car, where he cradles Nate gently enough that Nate doesn’t even feel pain. The bandages on Nate’s abdomen are stained with dried blood, and Will places a warm hand on Nate’s skin just above them, and Nate inhales and exhales and tries not to think of Jay, but fails miserably. He breathes out Will’s name just to remember, and Will rewards him for it, scratching his nails lightly down Nate’s bare stomach. 

Nate kisses his lips and his chin and his chest, and then lower, his abs, his stomach, the pale space above his thighs, and Will’s fists grip the leather seats in handfuls, leaving sweaty prints on the back of the headrests as Nate wraps his mouth around Will’s cock. Nate moves slowly enough that Will shudders and gasps and whines for release, and then he moves faster and faster, ignoring the twinge in his side, and then Will finally comes and Nate swallows and Will calls him a dirty fucker and they laugh, at least, happy for this one moment. 

Will turns Nate around softly, palms his lower back, his fingers spit-slick, and Nate doesn’t let him see him wince, just a reflex, something for Jay to yell at him about later, and he leans his head back on Will’s shoulder, and it’s so gentle, so unlike how they usually are, what they usually want, and he both loves and hates this, this sensitivity of him. Will kisses Nate’s temple, and Nate closes his eyes, and Will pulses against him, again and again, and Nate forgets not to say anything, so he says, “Harder,” and Will asks him if he’s sure, and his voice is a whisper, a rough breath against Nate’s neck.

“Please,” Nate says, and Will reluctantly agrees, starts to push against him harder and harder, faster and faster, his hands on Nate’s hips now, gripping tight enough to bruise. Nate lets out something like a moan and Will bites down on Nate’s shoulder, his teeth leaving prints on Nate’s skin, blue and purple indents. 

Nate comes before Will does, and Will moves his teeth to Nate’s earlobe, the space underneath his chin, and he almost cries out and he almost says something, but Nate’s skin is still in his teeth and his voice is low in his throat, and Nate wants to bottle this, wants to remember this more than he wants to forgot. 

Before this, before everything, Nate had once thought that he could spend his life with Will. 

When their hearts have returned to normal, Nate kisses Will on the corner of his mouth, softer than he’s ever kissed anyone. He buries his nose in the crook of Will's neck, and he murmurs something that Will doesn’t quite catch. 

“What?" Will asks. 

“Thank you," Nate says. 

And Will asks, “What for?”

And Nate says, “You never asked me to love you."

And Will looks at him for a long time before he turns away.

***

He’s torn two of his stitches, and Jay clucks over him like a mother hen, his fingertips dotting Nate’s stomach. They've set their flight for another week, and Nate begs Jay not to force him to go to the hospital, for this and for the bites and for the bruises on his hips, and Jay looks at him with a measured look, and Nate knows he wants to put his foot down, to protest this refusal, so Nate kisses him and kisses him and tells him that he’s fine, that he will be fine. He’s not sure how to tell Jay about Will, about this thing with Will that is no more, afraid that Jay might be more disappointed about it than Nate is. 

There's a new number that keeps ringing Jay's cell, and it has to be Alvey, Nate’s sure of it, but Jay never picks up, never moves his eyes away from Nate and from what Nate needs. Jay feeds him pills and takes him out to restaurants and lets him choose the movie when they go to the theater on a Wednesday night at nine, sitting in the dark by themselves with a huge bucket of popcorn, and sometimes Nate feels like he’s a kid again, no mother, no father, just Jay. 

Jay’s fingers fit perfectly into the bruises on his hips, and Nate tries hard not to think too much about that when Jay leans his mouth down on the space where Nate’s neck meets his shoulder, his teeth and his tongue and it’s gentle, so gentle, and Nate closes his eyes and thinks of nothing but this. Jay tells him that he loves him every day, every hour, every time his mouth is on Nate’s or his fingers are on Nate or his eyes, every time Jay thinks Nate is asleep, and he will press his lips into Nate’s hair and tell him that he loves him over and over and over again until the words are stale in the air, until they mean nothing. Nate has always known that Jay loves him, he’s never been afraid of that, even when he was afraid to come out and ruin their almost perfect, never picturesque life. 

Jay asks him what he wants to do when he gets home, besides finally fucking find some good weed in this godforsaken world, and Nate laughs and says, “I dunno, play video games?” 

And Jay looks at him with that look of his and says, “Nathaniel.” And it is so much like their childhood, so much like what they’ve left behind that Nate almost feels sad and nostalgic, feels familiar, but lost at the same time. 

Jay says, “What have I told you about video games rotting your brain?”

And Nate laughs again, and this time it actually hurts, and there’s a drop of blood that seeps out of his bandage, in the spot where the stitches are torn, but it feels good for a minute, feels like Nate is actually alive, and he turns around and he leans into Jay and Jay leans back into him and they stay like that for awhile, the ghost of Jay’s mouth hovering above Nate’s, never really touching him. 

***

Christina calls while Jay’s taking a shower one morning. She’s blessedly brief, asks him how he’s doing, if he needs anything, if he got the flowers she sent to the hospital, never asks him how Jay’s treating him because of course she already knows. She does ask him why he hasn’t seen Alvey, and Nate doesn’t answer, doesn’t even know how to begin to explain. He’s not sure there’s anything he could say to make Jay change his mind about letting their father know where they are, but then again, he hasn’t even really tried, for Jay’s sake or his own, he’s not quite sure. 

“He misses you,” she says. “He wants to know how you’re doing.”

“I’m fine,” he says. 

“He wants to speak with you.” 

Nate is silent, picks at the corner of the blanket, the twinge in his abdomen growing and growing. The TV is on, but muted, the flickering lights playing with his headache. He hasn’t taken his pills yet, had woken up when Jay’s alarm went off, had tried to lull him back to sleep again with whisper-soft kisses and the slow slide of his hand down the front of Jay’s pajama pants, all to no avail. It’s harder in the mornings, harder to open his eyes, harder to get out of the cocoon of blankets that’s he builds for himself and Jay, even harder when he feels like his lower half is on fire, when he’s stiff and aching and afraid that today will be the day he can’t hobble up and out of bed. 

He closes his eyes and opens them again, his head pulsating in time. 

“Alvey’s scared,” she says. “He didn’t mean what he said, he didn’t mean for it to turn out the way it did. He doesn’t want to lose you.”

Like you did? Nate doesn’t say. 

Jay turns off the shower, and Nate can hear him singing faintly in the bathroom, can feel the heat of the steam that seeps through the door. It’s a country song, something their father used to listen to, and Nate turns over, presses the phone tightly to his ear, tight enough that it hurts.

“He just wants to see you, Nate.”

Nate sighs. “Jay doesn’t want him here.” 

Christina pauses for a moment, and then says, “Well, make sure Jay doesn’t know then.” She gives Nate Alvey’s number and tells him to call. “He loves you. Don’t forget that.” 

Jay opens the bathroom door, and Nate pretends that he’s still asleep. 

***

They take a drive before the early morning flight, hoping to stay awake. Jay has one hand on the wheel and the other one on Nate’s thigh, and Nate feels sleepy and warm, the windows down, the air brushing against his fingertips on the passenger side door. Jay says, “About Alvey,” and lets the sentence hang there for a moment, the street lights illuminating his face in waves, light, dark, light, dark. He still has his sunglasses on, like an asshole. 

Nate doesn’t say anything, waits for Jay to finish, and Jay’s looking straight ahead, both hands on the wheel now, ten and two, and Nate is letting this ride, wants to hear this come from Jay, doesn’t want to influence his decision at all. They pass streets and highway exits and all-night 7/11s, and homeless people rolling shopping carts around deserted gas stations, and Jay doesn’t open his mouth and Nate wants to ask him to finish his thought, but doesn’t, feels brave enough in the darkness to slide a hand over Jay’s leg, curling his palm around Jay’s upper thigh. 

Jay doesn’t move, starts and stops and starts again, saying Nate’s name, and then Alvey’s, and then Nate’s again, can’t move past this thought of losing everything he’s worked so hard to maintain, losing Nate to someone who doesn’t deserve him, doesn’t even deserve what Jay is most of the time, let alone this beautiful boy beside him. Jay says, “I think,” and he’s usually not this lost for words, can usually rant about anything, everything, given half an almost sober mind and a hot topic of conversation, and Nate doesn’t wait for him to finish, moves his hand up his waist, hovering with his fingers on Jay’s belt buckle. 

Jay inhales, and Nate’s fingers stop moving, and Jay says, “Alvey,” and stops, and Nate starts again, undoing Jay’s belt deftly with one hand, pulling down his zipper slowly, so slow. “Um.”

And Nate smiles in the darkness, this dangerous, devilish smile, and he pulls Jay’s cock free from his underwear, and Jay makes a sound that isn’t intelligible, isn’t a word, and Nate unbuckles his seatbelt and leans down slowly, so slow, and Jay pushes his sunglasses up, his hand covering his eyes for a brief moment, only one hand on the wheel, the car nosing slightly to the left, over the line and into the brush of the desert, before he opens his eyes and jerks it back onto the road. “Jesus,” he says, and wonders somewhere far away in the back of his mind if they’ll get arrested for this. 

Nate opens his mouth and swallows him, and Jay breathes in sharply through his nose, and both of his hands are gripping the steering wheel tightly now, tight enough that his knuckles strain white against the dark rental car, and the street lights flash, light, dark, light, dark, and Nate tongues Jay’s cock, moves his lips up and down. 

Jay says, “Fucking Christ, Nathanial,” and Nate laughs, and it’s more like a hum, and Jay jerks in his seat, feeling rock hard in Nate’s mouth, and Nate does it again and again until Jay has to pull over to the side of the road because he can’t concentrate anymore, pushing the gear shift into park as quickly as he can, his palm on the back of Nate’s neck, sliding up and down, up and down. “Fuck,” he breathes again, no more than a whisper. 

Nate uses his teeth, gently, and Jay comes then, his body all at once rigid and then limp in his seat, his right foot gassing the pedal so hard the car roars. Nate wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sits up in his seat, his eyes lazy and low, and, just to be even more of an asshole than Jay is, he says, “You were saying?”

And Jay looks at him for a moment and says, “Fuck you, Nate,” but laughs all the same.

And Nate smiles up at him innocently enough and says, “We can do that, too.” 

***

The flight is unexceptional, and - for a lot of it - Jay holds Nate’s hand underneath the blanket they wrapped around themselves. Nate stares out the window and sleeps for a few restless minutes at a time, and Jay pretends to read Sky Mall, and they don’t talk, they don’t even really look at each other. 

There is only a brief minute of turbulence, Nate’s hand tightening on Jay’s, and then the sun breaks through the clouds and alights all of the windows in the cabin, and they’re flying straight again, and Jay’s iPod starts playing one of his favorite songs, and he removes one earbud and places it gently into Nate’s ear and Nate looks up at him and Jay has this flash of Nate as a little kid, reaching up to him, and he feels like he’s losing his grasp on all of this. He feels like he’s letting Nate down, he feels like he’s using him to selfishly seek a better life. 

He feels like a terrible father, a terrible brother, a terrible son. 

He clears his throat and his voice is awful, and he says, “Are you hungry? We can stop by that taco stand you like on the way home.”

And Nate lifts up one corner of his mouth and leans his head down on Jay’s shoulder, and Jay lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

***

They come home to blessed silence. 

Nate stumbles inside, tired enough that Jay has to lend a shoulder for him to lean on, Jay’s arm wrapping warm and tight around him, Nate’s mouth open, slack, on Jay’s neck. He had taken too many sleeping pills, had mixed up dosages and pill bottles in the cab ride from the airport, and Jay had skipped the taco stand in favor of getting Nate home as fast as he could. He had been slurring his words all the way, wet, rounded shapes against Jay’s skin, and once through the door, Jay guides him to the bedroom, lays him down gently onto the bed, where Nate curls up on his side with one palm on his stomach, flat against the stitches. 

Jay sits down next to him and gently takes off one shoe and then the other, setting them down beside the bed. He reaches for Nate’s pants, but Nate moves his hand to cover Jay’s own, warm, solid, and he says something that Jay can’t quite make out. “What?” Jay asks, his voice quiet, soft. 

Nate says Jay’s name, and he opens his eyes and they’re unfocused, heavy-lidded. Jay smiles briefly at the sight, this drugged, sleepy, cuddly Nate, and Nate says, “I want to see him.”

And Jay’s smile slips. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and then, “He hurt you, Nate. He doesn’t get that choice.”

Nate makes a noise low in his throat, a disagreement, frustration bubbling up to the surface of his usually carefully concealed demeanor. “But I do.” He closes his eyes, opens them again, and he’s slow, measured, his hand still on Jay’s. “I get that choice.”

Jay swallows audibly, and when he speaks, his voice is laced with unshed tears. “You don’t need his approval. You don’t need anything from him.”

And they both hear what he’s really saying, what Jay has always been saying for Nate’s entire life, when it was them against their parents, when it was them against the entire world: You don’t need him.

You don’t need anybody except me. 

Nate brings Jay’s hand up to his mouth, presses a small kiss to his knuckles. “I know,” he says, and his voice is hoarse and it wavers between them, threatens to break, and Nate wants to tell him that he doesn’t have to worry, that Alvey will never mean what Jay means to him, but he can’t find the words now, has never been able to find the words. He can touch and kiss and love him with his hands and his mouth and pretend that that is just as meaningful, just as succinct as any rant that Jay can articulate, but it’s not, he knows it’s not, because neither of them are secure in the knowledge that they are the only ones that matter, that nobody can come between them. 

Nate has known for a long time that Jay wants Nate to have every opportunity that Jay missed, including a family, including a life away from this, from Christina, from Alvey, from him. Jay was the one who wanted him to be with Will - even more than Nate actually wanted to be with Will - and Jay was the one who wanted him to be happy, to be safe, to be loved, even when he came out, especially when he came out. Jay has been pulling him in and pushing him away forever, since they started this whatever, this thing they have between them. Jay has always known that this was not sustainable, that this would not last forever, that Nate deserves so much more, so much better than Jay. 

Part of Nate has always let Jay push him away - the part that is cowardly and self-preserving, the part that wakes up everyday scared to be alive - and he hates that about himself, hates that there’s something inside of him that would rather feel normal than have Jay in his life, like this, like they want to be with each other, like they are. He thinks about leaving this behind, about finding someone like Will to take Jay’s place, someone he can grow up with, grow old with, and his hands start to tremble. 

One step forward, six steps back. 

Jay takes his hand away from Nate’s grip, lays it in his lap. He’s not looking at Nate, and Nate knows that he doesn’t want Nate to see him cry. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

And Nate asks, “Who does?” but it’s not funny and it falls short, and Jay still doesn’t look at him, and Nate feels his words echoing back to him in the small room, the light that filters in through the curtains, bleeding across the carpet. Nate is more tired than before now, and he slowly reaches across the divide between them, feels for Jay’s hand, his fingers numb and clumsy, spilling into Jay’s lap. 

Jay lets him hold his hand now, lets him pull Jay into bed, both fully clothed, both jet-lagged and grimy from recycled air and the dirty fabric of the airplane seats and the blanket that smelled like beer and puke. Jay curls into him and he curls into Jay, and they lay there in silence for what feels like hours, listening to each other breathe. 

After awhile, Jay presses his dry, chapped lips to Nate’s forehead. He says, in a voice that’s beyond wrecked, beyond fucked and hoarse and strained, and it hurts so much, it hurts both of them, “You are the best thing in my entire life, Nate. And I want you to know that no matter what he says, you are better than him.”

“Jay,” Nate says, but it’s almost inaudible. 

Jay presses another kiss to his temple, harder this time. “I don't want him to take away your confidence, and I don’t want you to be afraid of who you are, and if you want to leave everything behind and go somewhere where it’s just me, just you, where nobody knows us, I will do that for you, Nate.” He breathes in, and it’s a rough, jagged sound. “I will go to the ends of the earth for you.”

He says, in that voice that kills, “Nobody will stand in our way.”

And he says, his mouth on Nate’s skin, in his hair, his mouth sharp enough to bruise, just another bruise to match all of the others, “I will make sure that nobody stands in our way.”

And he says, his lips searing into Nate, burning him all the way, “Just say the word, Nate.”

Nate turns and presses his mouth to Jay’s, and it’s as much of an answer as not, and Jay doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t ask for more than what Nate can give him. Jay opens his mouth and lets Nate in, and they kiss once, twice, again, again, kiss until Nate pulls away, buries his face in the crook of Jay’s neck, closes his eyes and pulls in a stuttered breath, Jay’s arms around him, warm and safe and perfect. 

They stay like that for longer than they should, the wound on Nate’s abdomen aching, growing stiffer, painful until he finally falls into a light, fitful sleep, dreaming of nothing but blackness and Jay’s body beneath him, his chest and his beating heart, pulsing in time to the tears that crawl down Nate’s face. 

***

Alvey meets him at the gym before the doors open. 

Nate had begged Jay to stay home, had promised him that he would be okay, had bribed him with whatever he wanted, but then didn’t trust him enough to not follow, so he had crushed up one of his sleeping pills and added it to Jay’s nightly rum and Coke, slipping silently out of bed the next morning, Jay snoring like the world was ending. Nate had tucked him in sweetly, kissed him on the corner of his mouth, and left just as the sun was rising, blood red fingertips reaching towards the sky. He pulls into the parking lot now, watches as Alvey waits by the front door, his hand over his mouth, fingers digging deep into his cheeks. 

Nate almost wants to turn back, wants to tell Jay that he was right, that Alvey doesn’t deserve him, that they’re better off gone, but Alvey looks up and sees him and there’s such relief in his eyes, such longing, that Nate can’t help it, he gets out of the car before he knows what he’s doing, walking the short walk to the door, his fists curling in and out, his heart pounding. He stops at the top of the steps, and Alvey reaches out to pull him in, but Nate must wince or something, because his hand stills between them, awkwardly balanced in the air. 

“How are you doing?” Alvey asks, breathless. And then, “You look great.”

Nate shrugs. He doesn’t tell him about the sleepless nights that he wakes up with the sound of a gun in his head, the echo of two shots and a fire burning in his belly. He doesn’t tell him about Jay’s fingers and hands and mouth soothing him back to sleep as he cries, helplessly, great, heaving sobs because he’s terrified, because he doesn’t know where he is, because he can’t remember if this is life or something else that looks a lot like it. He doesn’t tell him about the thoughts he’s been having lately about taking more pills than he should, of swallowing them all dry and climbing into his bed and maybe falling asleep and never waking up, never coming back to this life where this is what he is, who he is, where his father feels ashamed to have a son like him. 

He doesn’t tell him that some of the time - most of the time - he wishes that he was never saved from that bar parking lot, the blood on his hands, on his face, on his stomach, the two little holes that burned all the way through him, where the bandages were, the spot where Jay always treads lightly, careful of the stitches, of the weathered and puckered and raw skin. Jay treats him like he’s fragile and he doesn’t tell Alvey that sometimes he hates Jay for it, that he loathes this, all of this, this fucking family that brought them to this place, where Jay raised Nate because their father had better, more important things to do, because their mother had fucked off with her pimp and her drugs. Jay treats him like he shouldn’t deserve this life, and Nate doesn’t tell Alvey that he deserves this more than all of them combined, that he is the very worst of them, that he is the one who should be ashamed of himself, and is, and will probably always be. 

Alvey pulls back his hand and gestures to the door, asking Nate if he wants to come inside. Nate shrugs again, and follows Alvey to his office, where Alvey pulls out a bottle of whiskey and two chipped rock glasses, pouring a healthy amount in each. 

“It's five in the morning,” Nate says, watching Alvey throw back the shot, the long column of his throat tilting back. 

Alvey doesn’t say anything to that, and then, his voice rough from abuse, “Thought you might need some liquid courage.” Like I do, he doesn’t say. His fingers itch and Nate knows that he wants to pour more into the glass, so he pushes his towards Alvey, watches as Alvey swallows that one back, too. 

Alvey smiles, hesitantly, and slides both glasses away from them, suddenly ashamed. He lays his palms flat on the desk, looks at Nate and doesn’t look away, even when it gets hard to hold his gaze. 

Nate says, “Why didn’t you come to the hospital?”

And Alvey says, “I tried,” and then falters, coughs, his hand covering his mouth, starts up again. “I tried, but your brother wouldn’t let me.”

“You should have tried harder,” Nate whispers, and it hurts to even say it. 

Alvey looks at him and then looks away. “I know,” he says, and for a brief moment Nate almost feels sorry for him. Alvey looks like he’s been sleeping rough, his hair is unwashed and his clothes are worn in, and he’s probably drinking to stave off the hangover from last night, and Nate is so familiar with all of this, knows exactly what this is like, what comes next, that he just wants to forget everything that’s happened, forget all of this anger, forget all of this remorse, and fit himself snugly back into place, the perfect missing puzzle piece. It is only a moment, though, and when Alvey pours himself yet another drink, Nate is back to feeling angry, feeling hurt, feeling scared. 

“How could you hate me that much?” His words are ruthless, his voice is cutting, and Alvey grips the desk hard enough to shake it. 

“I don’t,” Alvey says, and looks up at Nate, looks right at him, his bloodshot eyes, his bruised face. “I love you, Nate, I will always love you. You’re my,” he chokes here, clears his throat and tries to stem the tears that are threatening to fall. “You’re my son. I love you.”

Nate shakes his head, and his fists curl in and out, in and out. “You asked me how I could be myself when my grandmother was in the hospital, and you called me a fucking faggot. What part about that tells me you love me?”

“Nate,” Alvey starts, but Nate slams a fist down on the desk, and it groans from the effort. 

“No,” Nate says, “You don’t get to speak now. I finally,” he inhales sharply, “I fucking finally tell you who I really am, and you think I’m what? Joking? You think I’m playing a game because God fucking forbid Alvey Kulina’s son be a fucking faggot. Well, guess what, dad? I’m fucking gay. And telling me that you love me does not change that.”

“I know,” Alvey says, and then again, “I know, Nate, I know.” He gets out of his chair and walks around the desk to Nate, pulling him up and out and into him, his arms tight around Nate’s shoulders. He starts to cry, tears leaking onto Nate’s face, into his hair, and Nate’s lips taste like salt, and his arms are at his side, and he wants so badly to fall into Alvey, to melt into him and forgive him, forgive everything, but every part of him is screaming inside, every part of him is lit up with anger. 

“I had a boyfriend,” he mumbles into Alvey’s shoulder. “He came to see me in the hospital, and I told him to leave. You want to know why?” Nate breathes in, breathes out. “Because I could still hear you yelling at me, because I could still see your face every time I closed my eyes.”

And Alvey cries and cries and Nate feels cold, feels something sharp inside him. 

“I can’t forgive you,” Nate says, and he sounds small, he feels small. “I can’t, not yet.”

And Alvey just nods, shaking Nate’s whole body.

They stand like that until they hear the front door open, until the sounds of the gym start to fill the office, until Alvey can finally pull away and look Nate in the eye and Nate doesn’t automatically look away. Nate makes Alvey promise to call Jay, to invite him to the big fight, the one that had to be postponed while Alvey was fighting for his son’s life in another state, the media’s words, not Alvey’s, not Nate’s, and Alvey fingers the bottle on his desk and says that he will, and they both know that it’s a lie, they both know that this will take more than time to heal, the wounds on both sides, on all sides, the wounds that burn through them like gunshots. 

Alvey asks Nate to tell him more about his life when he’s feeling ready, when he’s finally able to accept Alvey for who he is, and Nate looks at him for one long moment, pretends that he will find someone else, pretends that he will one day start a life and a family, and tells Alvey that he will. Alvey accepts this with grace, smiling slowly, on one side of his mouth, until Nate leaves, slips through the gym without ever looking at anyone, without saying anything. 

He gets to his car and he sits there for a minute, two, three, checks his face in the rearview mirror and sees nothing out of the ordinary, turns the engine over and listens to the car come to life, loud in the early morning. His stomach is killing him, an ache that will tear through him for another month at least, and his phone rings and he picks it up before he can stop himself, and Jay’s voice is on the other line calling him a fucking terrorist son of a bitch. 

And Nate laughs, long and loud, too loud to be real, too long to be anything but a mask for his relief, for the tears that are threatening to fall, but he doesn’t ever say he’s sorry, because he’s not, because he did the right thing, because Jay needed to let him live his own life for once. Jay swears at him and demands that he come home with coffee and donuts and something else to wash out the dry taste of pharmaceuticals in Jay’s mouth, and Nate says okay, and Jay tells him that he loves him, and Nate says it back, and for one short moment Nate feels like he’s going to be okay at the end of all of this. 

Jay doesn’t ask about Alvey, and Nate doesn’t volunteer, but Jay does say, his mouth close enough to his phone that Nate can hear every inhalation, every hitch in Jay’s voice, every breath between them that means that they’re here, they’re alive, and they’re going to be able to fight for another day, Jay saying, “I hope you got what you needed.”

And Nate doesn’t know how to respond, doesn’t say anything for a long moment, can hear Jay on the other end breathing, the slow pull and push, and then he says, his voice just as groggy as Jay’s, “I have everything I need right here.”

And they do.


End file.
